Of Men and Mule
by Jay Simpson
Summary: This story is a cross-over between the Star Wars universe and that of the Foundation universe by Isaac Asimov. What happens when a powerful mutant is victorious and sets his sights even higher?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's disclaimer__: I do not own or control any element of __**Star Wars**__ by George Lucas, nor that of __**Foundation**__ or __**Second Foundation**__ by the late Isaac Asimov. This story is not for sale, but is for free distribution for the enjoyment of readers._

**Chapter 1**

"There _has_ to be more," said the man silently to himself. He gazed out before him, but the room was empty. It usually was. He was frustrated. It had all been easy – too easy. Memories of his childhood flooded back to him, wherein he recalled being an object of scorn, ridicule and pity. That of course was before he had discovered his latent talent.

He had nearly failed to achieve his goal – all because of a young woman who had liked him – _him_! It was _weakness_. It was an utterly foolish weakness, and the man swore it would never be repeated. He recalled the moment at which all of his plans were nearly smashed. He could recall it clearly. An older man was slumped over book films, barely able to remain coherent, but the knowledge was there. The old man retained life only in his eyes, and for that reason he remained coherent, though his body had been sapped of all strength and will otherwise.

On that day, a woman stood in that room with him too, along with a young man. She had nearly ruined it all, but just as she drew her blaster he saw it clearly. He leaped. But his leap was different from that others might have made. It was in his mind. He clamped on to the woman's emotional will and stopped her. She froze before she could make contact and activate the blaster. It had been pointed at the old man. _So close_!

Eighteen months after that event, the man finished his task with ruthless efficiency, and the galaxy was his. His official title was _First Citizen_, but most of the galaxy knew him by the name with which he had branded himself: _The Mule_.

The Mule allowed such memories to course freely through his mind, for they served to remind him how weakness could quickly bring about disaster. He punished himself with such memories. The large room in which he now sat was empty but for himself, and he knew that no guards were outside his door. Indeed, no guards were on his palace grounds at all. He had no need for them.

He was a mutant. His physical appearance was unimpressive, and indeed he would appear laughable to most with whom he had not come into mental contact. His limbs were long and thin, his body was small and frail, he had a beak of a nose, and he had large, soft brown eyes. Few knew what he actually looked like, and that too was not accidental. Rumors circulated about the appearance of the Mule, but the most prevalent was the one he had invented years before, that of a tremendously-powerful man of staggering physique and proportion, who's eyes were never visible – and to look upon those eyes brought on madness, or even death.

Persons who came into contact with the Mule were _Converted_. The Mule had early discovered an ability to not only read the emotions of persons but also to adjust them, permanently. Even his most bitter enemies could be and were transformed into his most loyal and dedicated servants, without but of the slightest mental effort by the Mule. To him, human minds were a series of dials and switches that he could read, reach into and adjust at will. Nobody could hide their emotions from the Mule. He could read even the most subtle changes in emotion like a book. He had even the ability to read and project emotions over a wide area, including the projection of a pervasive and irresistible sense of fear and dread. Such a dread fell over anyone who approached his palace unbidden.

Once again, the Mule recalled the day he had stopped that woman. Her name was Bayta Darell. She and her husband, Toran, had been fleeing from the Mule and his forces, after the fall of Terminus_, _home planet of the Foundation. They brought with them an older man named Ebling Mis. They fled to the former capital of the old Galactic Empire, the the former planet-city of Trantor. They had with them a clown known as _Magnifico_, who claimed to have served the Mule and then escaped from him. What none of the others knew was that the clown claiming to be Magnifico was indeed the Mule himself.

The Mule leveraged his extraordinary mutant power to induce Ebling Mis into expending all of his mental energies into researching the location of the secretive Second Foundation. Indeed, the Mule's manipulation allowed the older man to drain all of his physical energy in the process, all but killing him, reducing him to a shell of his former self. The Mule had been careful to manipulate everyone in that small group of people into believing he was only a harmless clown – all save one.

Bayta Darell showed affection for him – _real_ affection. The Mule was not accustomed to that, since he had known only revulsion, disgust, amusement, or pity from others. Because of that, he had decided earlier not to convert her. Her true emotions had become too precious to him, and so he left them unmodified. That decision nearly cost the Mule everything.

After the Mule clamped down on Bayta Darell and prevented her from killing Ebling Mis, he took complete control of the situation with his mind. All emotions of the room's occupants were under his command. The old man recovered from the shock that he had nearly been killed by his friend, and the woman's husband was still reeling from the same. The old man, still retaining a look of surprise, uttered, "It's here! It has been here all the time – right here on Trantor."

Later that day, the Mule had taken swift and decisive action. The members of the Second Foundation were powerful, and they had the ability to make mental adjustments of their own, though not on the scale of which the Mule himself was capable. They were too dangerous for the Mule to attempt to convert. He ordered the ancient capital of the former Galactic Empire razed from orbit – nothing survived. For good measure, he ordered troops in radiation suits to scour the surface of the planet with instruments of detection, ensuring no one had burrowed underground.

The woman, Bayta, became his. It was an easy thing to adjust the emotions of her and her husband, so that Toran did not care that she left him, and she fell completely in love with the Mule. He had desired to retain a tiny portion of the true affection Bayta had at one time felt for him, but it was simpler to convert her altogether.

To his disgust, the Mule had discovered that he was infertile. Great teams of Foundation scientists worked with unlimited funds to find a solution, and one had been found. An heir with at least some of the Mule's abilities was absolutely essential, if his empire were to last beyond his own life span, which was also projected to be short. Scientists found it more difficult to find a solution to his limited lifespan, but they worked on it still. He discovered that due to his mutation, his lifespan would be shorter than most others, and that infuriated him.

Now, the Mule sat upon his throne, First Citizen of the new Galactic Empire. The forces of the both the first and second Foundations were crushed beneath his heel, and those who had at one time opposed him were now his most loyal and ardent supporters – or dead. To be sure, not all the members of the Second Foundation were eliminated, for the Mule was not foolish enough to believe they had all been on Trantor during its surface bombardment. The ones who remained concerned him, but they were a minimal threat. Even so, his agents hunted them, chasing down all rumors and leads.

Centuries before, a man named Hari Seldon had invented a science called _Psychohistory_. That science allowed future events to be predicted through mathematics, at least on a grand scale. Psychohistory was useless at predicting individual actions or even those of groups of relatively small scale. Seldon had predicted the fall of the first Galactic Empire that had lasted for many thousands of years. His plan called for the setting up of two Foundations. One would be a physical foundation that would establish itself on the far side of the galaxy, and it would focus on physical science and technology, growing in strength as the remnants of the old Galactic Empire continued to decay and crumble. That was the First Foundation, known to the galaxy as simply _The Foundation_.

The Second Foundation had been set up in secret, its existence unrevealed even to those of the first Foundation. It was composed of psychohistorians with significant mental powers. These were not ordinary psychohistorians, but they were men and women capable of mental telepathy and limited mind control. Their primary task was to ensure the first Foundation remained on track to eventually become the second Galactic Empire. They studied and modified Seldon's original plan, and they leveraged their telepathic powers of persuasion within the first Foundation to that end. Hari Seldon's plan had called for that to take a thousand years.

The Mule smiled. Seldon's ghost should be thankful. The Mule accomplished in a mere few centuries what would have taken the Foundation and the secretive Second Foundation a thousand years. The thirty thousand years of darkness and chaos that Hari Seldon had originally feared would follow the fall of the first Galactic Empire had lasted a mere few centuries.

The Mule arose from his seat and walked to the great windows in his throne room. The night sky shown with stars all around, and most of them owed allegiance to the mutated man gazing upon them. Still, it was not enough. Bitter memories of his younger years churned within him, and he transformed them into desire – a desire for conquest and complete domination._ All_ would adore him, for they would have no choice.

Thanks to the scientists from the former Foundation, newer, more advanced ships had been developed, and computer technology had achieved quantum leaps. Hyperspace travel was much faster, more dependable, and it was now able to be powered by incredibly powerful but small _gravitic_ drives. Multitudes of those newer ships had been dispatched to all corners of the galaxy, even to the unstable core with its collection of black holes.

General Han Pritcher, once another bitter enemy of the Mule and servant of the Foundation, was due within the hour. His scouts had discovered something of keen interest in the vicinity of the mass of black holes at the center of the galaxy. Ships of the old Galactic Empire had not ventured there, since they did not possess the technology to do so safely. That was no longer a concern for the Mule.

...

"I don't see how that is possible," said the officer in a matter of fact voice. He stood behind the man engaging him, whose face had previously been buried in a terminal. The station was embedded within the rock face of Kessel. The young man before the officer was not an idiot; the officer addressing him was certain of that. His men comprised small enough a crew that the officer had found sufficient time to study the records of each, at least in some detail. The size of the station also called for the billet of an Imperial captain, which was the rank attached upon the tunic of the officer. He served Palpatine's Galactic Empire.

"I understand, sir, but nevertheless the readings are correct," replied the man at the terminal. Unlike the captain, the man wore no rank, but he was a non-commissioned officer with years of training and experience behind him. Like the captain, he too had been dubious of the initial readings, but then he had personally checked the terminals and run diagnostics of the instruments. The relays were functioning normally, and the readings were consistent. Near the mass of black holes closest to Kessel, sensors had obviously detected a small ship, but only for a short while. Then it had vanished, as though it had never been there in the first place.

"How could a ship, especially one so small, jump into hyperspace without our detecting it?" demanded the captain.

"I don't think it entered hyperspace, sir."

"Then where did it go?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Did it take readings prior to … disappearing?"

"If it did, then we did not detect any scans from it, sir."

"Perhaps it is some form of CIS technology we were unaware of."

"It did not come close to matching anything I've seen of the CIS, sir."

"Well, I cannot report this as it stands. We need something more!"

"Sir, we have the physical dimensions of the object and some power signature readings."

"But we don't know where it went!"

The officer sighed and pondered what he would put in his report. As it was, the report would be full of holes, and his higher headquarters would endlessly badger him with questions, perhaps even ordering him to report in person. The captain enjoyed the solitude of his assignment. He had been an officer in the old Republic, before then Chancellor Palpatine announced the formation of the Empire four years ago. He recalled the intensity of arduous ground campaigns and terrific space battles, and he now looked forward to retirement. He had no further military or political aspirations, and thus he had remained at his current rank for many years more than others of his rank.

What was that object that had appeared and disappeared so suddenly? He had fervently hoped that instrument or computer malfunctions would reveal the report to be inaccurate, but that hope was now dashed. His men were good at what they did, and so the readings were accurate. But no hyperspace readings were odd, and a ship so small should not have had an energy signature like that, nor did ships of that size possess a cloaking device. He shook his head and made his way toward his small office. This was going to be a long day.

...

In a small, dimly-lit room, two young men gazed at each other, immersed in animated conversation.

"Is there any further hope of restoring it?"

"Yes, but it is nearly mathematically impossible outside of the most extreme measures."

"You had something else to say."

"The agents of the Mule have discovered something unexpected."

"Does the Mule suspect anything?"

"Unlikely, but it is not impossible."

"Indeed. To underestimate the Mule proved disastrous for us, and for the galaxy."

The room was plain and dark, inside of an old ship. One weak source of light bathed faces of the two men speaking, flickering in the darkness. A three-dimensional projection of the _Prime Radiant_ shone between the men as they spoke, though they did not exactly _speak_. Much of their conversation was in the form of slight facial changes, shifts in thought patterns, and other cues to which they were sensitive. Their conversations were short, so that a great deal could be said in a very small amount of time. Often, the men did not speak at all, but rather they projected their thoughts and emotions, which were readily understood by each other. These were men of what was left of the Second Foundation.

Hari Seldon and his team had designed the Prime Radiant centuries before, and it was the primary tool the Second Foundation had used to chart the course of the First Foundation toward establishing the second Galactic Empire. That was supposed to have taken a thousand years, assuming no major deviations to the plan. But then nobody had accounted for the Mule.

Members of the Second Foundation still existed, but they were scant and scattered. They were careful not to remain in one place for too long, but rather they lived as galactic nomads and traders. Indeed, anyone who met them thought they were traders and treated them accordingly. The Mule's ruthless attack on Trantor had been devastating, and the survivors numbered now barely more than a hundred men and women, across the galaxy. Their physical separation from each other was necessary for survival.

Still, Hari Seldon's plan existed, and the survivors of the Second Foundation had not given up all hope, yet. They still had the Prime Radiant, and to their knowledge the Mule did not. The Prime Radiant contained an enormous amount of information. It had to, for it contained a projection of history out to a thousand years, including multiple variations. The projection was unattractive to the men in the room, for it now indicated that the plan was almost unsalvageable. The Mule sat upon his throne on the planet of Kalgan, his incredible mutant powers bending an entire galaxy to his will. The planet Terminus, once home to the powerful First Foundation now lie under his sway, and their brilliant scientists and workers in technology were his in totality.

"What have they found?" inquired the First Speaker. His title denoted him as the senior member of the Second Foundation, and it allowed him little more than what its name denoted. He was always allowed to speak first.

"We do not yet know, but our agent informed us of great alarm and surprise among scouts returning from the core."

"Indeed," the First Speaker raised an eyebrow. By tradition, the First Speaker was an older man, at least in his mid-forties. The destruction of Trantor's surface had forced an end to that tradition, as older men no longer existed within the Second Foundation. First Speaker Prattok was only thirty-two. Most of the other survivors were considerably younger, but they showed maturity for their age. Their survival depended upon it.

Both men continued in conversation, though few actual words were exchanged. As always they diligently studied the numbers projecting forth from the Prime Radiant, searching for means to return the current timeline to Seldon's plan. Optimism for a return had been dim for a long time now, but perhaps there was at last some shred of hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The name was difficult to get used to, and so the officer yet struggled with it. In his opinion (which few seemed to care about), naming conventions should hold, despite whatever political element was in power.

"Imperial Center," he sneered at the air in front of his desk with obvious contempt. The air said nothing back to him. He pressed the space on his terminal that subsequently sent the message to which he had recently been subjected to the nether-regions of cyberspace. What kind of moron had the time to waste on picking apart correspondence based on minutia like this?

He absently reached up to brush the dark-brown hair on his head, what there was of it. Much like the clone troopers with whom he had served during the _Clone Wars_, Lieutenant Colonel Merdon Voss kept his hair cropped so closely that he appeared nearly bald from a distance. The morning was young, and he was already in a sour mood. He was tempted to send a scathing reply to the idiot that had scolded him for the use of _Coruscant_ in the place of _Imperial Center_, but he knew it would accomplish nothing constructive. Sighing softly, Voss opened the next message.

Voss was assigned to a section within Imperial Intelligence that was responsible for monitoring the Outer Rim, thus messages considered to be of intelligence value relating to that area of the Empire were parsed into his section's system. He was by no means the only lieutenant colonel within his section, and his assigned area fell within an area covering between the Perlemian trade route and the Baxel Sector. Usually, that meant monitoring the considerable activity within Hutt space. Their slimy paws were on just about everything.

This message concerned activity around Kessel, and specifically the area in vicinity to the Maw Cluster. The report detailed a small ship that had been spotted in the area and then disappeared. Well that was ridiculous; the report was missing a great deal of pertinent data. Voss was poised to reply, to demand more information from the station commander on Kessel, but then he stopped. He had heard of the officer before. Voss pulled up the commander's file.

Captain Jaktorz' record glowed upon the terminal. His image revealed him to be an older officer. Voss scrolled through the man's personnel data file. The captain had served over 20 years on active duty, stretching well back into the time of the old Republic, and he had apparently been one of the few non-coms to then seek and gain a commission, in what was then the the Republic. The record revealed multiple combat-related meritorious citations.

Voss lifted an eyebrow. The captain had apparently come under suspicion of lending aid and comfort to Jedi after they turned on their own clone troopers. The officer had been under the direct command of a Jedi general at the time, so that was unsurprising. According to the document in question, insufficient evidence had been uncovered to find him guilty, but his career had all but halted. He was apparently now just biding his time, so he could retire quietly into civilian life.

Voss grunted. Were it not for one politically dumb mistake, that captain would certainly outrank him by now, well on his way to becoming a flag officer. Instead, he had been placed on some remote rock in the galaxy's backwater to baby-sit a small crew of analysts. Even so, his record indicated a capable and knowledgeable officer who took initiative when necessary and executed assigned missions to standard. Voss activated another portion of his terminal and extended the microphone closer to his face.

"This is Captain Jaktorz, Kessel Monitoring Station."

"Lieutenant Colonel Voss here, captain, Coruscan …. err … Imperial Center."

"Yes sir, what can I do for you?"

"Regarding the report you transmitted recently, your station monitored a small ship in the vicinity of The Maw. I noticed you detected no hyperspace capability, or propulsion means of any kind on the vessel."

"That is correct, sir."

"Have you managed to conduct any further analysis since you transmitted the report?"

"All we have is a better description of the vessel's dimensions and power signature. I can transmit the updated information now if you would like."

"Please, and captain?"

"Sir."

"I would like your own thoughts on this too. We've not seen anything like this before, at least not within that area of space."

"Yes sir. I will include my own subjective analysis with the data."

"Thank you, captain."

"Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"No, that should be sufficient."

Voss terminated the link and activated a different portion his terminal. He entered a complex query fitting the description of the ship in question. The results would not come quickly, for the Imperial databases were huge, and scanning them took a considerable amount of time. Nevertheless, he also knew that a message would detail the results of his query once information was discovered, or not. The Imperial presence in that area was relatively thin, so Voss felt it feasible to notify the local sector fleet just in case any other mystery ships decided to pop into space.

...

The mansion looming behind him was a replica. The original had been destroyed a very long time ago. Lighting in the area was plentiful, and it provided the illusion of a sunny day, though no sunlight made its way in here. Most of the time, the area was quiet. Today was no different. The figure of a man sat in a chair next to the mansion and stared at a far wall of rock. It was rock cut from the moon of Earth.

Earth hung nearby in space, but it was a radioactive and dead planet, as it had been for centuries. Radioactivity had so increased over time that the last of humanity upon its surface now called another planet their home, and not even microbes survived on its surface. Indeed, most of humanity was not even aware of the existence of Earth.

The figure of a man seated and staring in silent contemplation was no man. He was a robot. But few would be able to discern the difference between him and any other man. Though he looked and often acted human, he lived by a different set of rules than those of humanity. R. Daneel Olivaw was bound by the dictates of the four robotic laws:

- A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

- A robot must obey any orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

- A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Those were the original three laws of robotics, but Daneel was now also constrained by what was termed the Zeroth Law, which stated that a robot must not act only in the interest of individual humans, but of all of humanity. Those laws were ever present in his mind, and they limited his interference, though his capabilities were considerable.

Upon the moon habitat with Daneel were many others like him, but none of them as old as he. For twenty thousand years, Daneel had played the role of guardian for humanity. He had even served as first minister to the emperor during the last days of the Galactic Empire. He worked directly with Hari Seldon to help him develop Psychohistory, and subsequent generations of men had worked to advance both the Foundation and Second Foundations down the road to Second Empire. Seldon and the Galactic Empire were both dead.

Then came the Mule. Daneel was caught in a quandary. He could decide to directly assist in the overthrow of the Mule and reestablishment of the Foundations, but could he do so without bringing greater harm upon humanity? For his failings, the Mule had successfully reestablished a new galactic empire, albeit outside the bounds of Seldon's Plan. Indeed, even the Mule paid at least lip service to Seldon's Plan, announcing that he himself was the fulfillment of it.

Robots were dispatched throughout the galaxy, and Daneel was always in contact with them. No human being had bothered to come to Earth or its star system in a very long time, since information on its existence was incredibly sparse. What little information did exist about it was in the form of tales and legends ranging from super beings that destroyed any approaching ships to being the radioactive wasteland it was. Nobody but Daneel and his robots knew of the moon base, and they were its sole inhabitants. The robots worked to eliminate all traces of Earth from archives throughout the galaxy. From this one place, they could be free of direct human interference, working tirelessly to protect humanity from itself.

The Seldon Plan was disastrously off-track, and to him it seemed impossible to set to rights. However, recent reports had been unexpected. While Daneel was certainly forward-looking enough to envision other galaxies with life, he believed mankind to be possibly thousands of years away from developing a means of extragalactic travel. He had ignored the core of his own galaxy though. The Mule had not.

Daneel scanned reports on his hand-held terminal. Through this interface, he could send instructions and monitor progress reports from throughout the galaxy – _this_ galaxy. One of his agents was en route to the stabilized wormhole the Mule had located. The ships available to him were not as advanced as those available to the Mule, but they were sufficiently capable vessels.

Daneel felt a sadness when he recalled learning of the dozens of scientists and technicians who had their lives cut short under the ministrations of the Mule. He had demonstrated his willingness to repeat the mental tactics that had once cut short the life of Ebling Mis. Worse, the men who were now dead had literally worked themselves to death under the powerful influence of the Mule. Daneel was relatively certain his people would not be detected, and it was imperative they get through that wormhole.

...

A solitary man strode purposefully toward the imposing heights of the palace. The area about the palace was devoid of personnel, but then it always was. The man he was summoned to meet had no need of guards. In the back of his mind was a silent memory that loomed, just always just out of reach. He had not always been loyal to the Mule. He knew that, but he could not determine why. Disloyalty was now all but inconceivable. The Mule had spoken to him once about it, explaining to him that he had been converted. The term held no negative connotations for him – it seemed necessary, just, and right. A faint memory of severe anger and hate toward the man to whom he now swore fealty was now only a faded nightmare, like a dark shadow within a dark mirror.

He saw the door ahead that lead to the chambers of the Mule. He knew the Mule was aware of his presence and had been for some time. General Han Pritcher entered the room. The Mule was standing at one of the long windows, gazing outward. Pritcher stopped and waited.

"I read your report."

"Sir," replied Pritcher.

One of the practices the Mule had held consistent was his title of First Citizen, along with the honorific of Sir. He took no more grandiose title for himself, even now that his domain was no less than that of the emperors of the old Galactic Empire. Unlike the emperors of old, the Mule did not cut a dashing figure. His lanky and too-long limbs, short torso and long nose, and soft brown eyes cut a non-threatening appearance.

"My senior military staff gave me their recommendation," said the Mule as he remained gazing out the window. He turned to face Pritcher, "But you already know what it is."

"Yes sir."

"Do you concur with their assessment?"

"It seems reasonable."

"That isn't what I asked."

"No sir, I do not."

"What would _you _recommend, Pritcher?"

"We need to conduct reconnaissance, sir."

"What of detection by those on the other side?"

"I'm counting on it, sir."

The Mule raised his eyebrows, and he probed lightly into his general's mind. Ah yes, that might well work, but then how would the natives of that other galaxy react?

"I see, Pritcher. Fascinating. My advisors also report that the one ship we sent through was most likely detected."

"Yes sir."

"What of readings from them?"

"Minimal. We did detect what was likely a sensor beam of some sort."

"Then they are aware of the wormhole?"

"I don't think they were, sir. The readings we did manage to take indicated the area was awash in a mass of energies, produced by what appeared to be a number of closely spaced black holes. Frankly, I am surprised we detected anything at all, much less the sensor beam in question."

"That concentration of black holes could prove a challenge for our ships equipped with gravitic drives."

"Yes sir, but most of our newer ships have nuclear engines as well."

"I don't want any ships with gravitic drives going through that wormhole, Pritcher."

"Yes sir."

"Execute your plan."

"Yes sir."

...

Martin was in a good mood today. For years he had made a good living as a trader, transporting wares across the galaxy, and over the years he had done well for himself. It mattered little to him what political hack was in charge of the galaxy, so long as he could make good credits. When he was younger, he recalled the Foundation being the dominant government in the galaxy, and it was from them that he garnered the most goods for trade.

Success allowed Martin to afford better ships over time, and his vessels had state-of-the-art equipment aboard. Not that he could obtain the new gravitic ships, but those were mostly military anyway. In fact, he knew of no non-military ships that used the mysterious gravitic drive, nor could any of his considerable contacts even tell him what the things really were. Perhaps they were just a myth.

His ships were armed, but only lightly so, since they were designed to fight off only bandits and pirates. They were roomy enough to carry a great many wares, and they had a decent fuel capacity. Overall, they were more than capable of fulfilling their function, and his crews were well trained and well compensated. Martin walked up to the captain.

"Captain Beck, are we nearly there?"

"Sir, we will arrive in approximately fifteen minutes."

Martin gazed through the forward view ports. They were not windows, but were instead displays, but they were intended to provide the same view that windows would have done. Martin thought of them as windows. For the time being, they showed nothing.

The government of the First Citizen had provided permission for him to be the first civilian fleet to enter this strange new galaxy. Martin rubbed his hands together quickly. He was both nervous and excited. He envisioned a giant new customer base, all clamoring for his wares. Of course, they would have a completely different system for monetary payment, but certainly they would have their own fine wares with which to offer trade, and those would necessarily prove to be exotic and exciting in his own galaxy. His seven-ship fleet would bring much to the table for trade. With the new money he would bring in, he would be able to significantly upgrade his trading fleet.

"We've reentered normal space," said the captain.

The view outside now included a considerable fleet of military ships, ranging in size from small craft to giant vessels of war over three kilometers in length. Martin also spotted several fixed installations under construction next to what had to be the wormhole. Were those trading posts?

"Civilian fleet, we are monitoring your approach. Maintain your course for the coordinates provided, and do not veer off course," announced a cold voice over the communications system. Martin had no intention of doing otherwise.

The fleet of ships maneuvered slowly toward the wormhole, and Martin eyed his captain nervously. From what he had been led to believe, the military had already been on the other side of that thing, so he assumed they had already established relations with whoever was there. Even so, he had ordered greetings programmed in Galactic Stanadard to be transmitted on multiple frequencies as soon as his fleet came in contact with the folks over there.

"Our communication systems are in order?"

"Yes sir."

He gazed into the "windows" as the vortex of the wormhole grew larger. He could almost feel the multiple guns on the military ships tracking him, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. As the ship in the lead of his fleet drew toward the threshold of the vortex, it suddenly vanished.

"Is it safe?" cried Martin, knowing instinctively that the question was already moot. The captain turned to stare at him with a blank expression. Martin then felt time seem to slow, and the captain's face appeared to elongate. He was saying something in reply, but it looked to be in slow motion, and he heard nothing. Just as soon as it started, it was over, and Martin found himself gazing at unfamiliar stars.

"… told us it was, sir."

"Come again?"

"I said, the military told us the wormhole was safe, and here we are. I'm reading an unidentified ship ahead."

"Send the message."

"It's already transmitting, sir."

...

"Sir," said one of the junior officers in the pit of the 1600-meter Imperial Star Destroyer, "we are registering seven of them."

"Armament?"

"Unknown, sir. They appear to be beam weapons of some kind, but I cannot determine their range or yield."

"Can you tell me whether or not they are active?"

"Yes sir. They appear inactive right now. Nor does it appear that the ships have shields, but perhaps they just are powered down right now."

"Understood. Maintain an active firing solution. Have you seen anything like that before?"

"No sir. They look like scaled-down versions of Mon Calamari cruise liners to me, but we have nothing that matches them on the database. They do somewhat fit the report of the one ship that appeared and then vanished in the vicinity a short time ago, though those ships are considerably larger. We are receiving a transmission."

"Put it on speaker."

Aboard the _Imperial Star Destroyer Ash_, a voice in an unknown language filled the air. Several crewmen looked about in puzzlement. The captain wrinkled his brow.

"They are not speaking Basic, sir," said the deck officer unnecessarily.

"Very observant; bring me the protocol droid."

The deck officer signaled a nearby crewman, who left the bridge. The strange ships continued transmitting gibberish.

"Cut it off," said the captain to the communications officer. The gibberish ceased. He studied the ships through the viewing plates on the bridge. They were an odd assortment of vessels, none of them the same size.

"Sir, we completed a preliminary scan of those ships," said an officer who had just alighted from one of the bridge pits.

"What did you find?"

"They all appear to be using some form of nuclear fusion engine, and the vessels possess shield projectors, though they are at the moment inactive. They are armed, and the weapon systems are comprised of low-yield energy beams. Their own scanning equipment is rudimentary in comparison to our own. Our assessment is that the combined firepower of those ships would pose no threat to this ship."

"Interesting. That doesn't quite fit with what was reported from the first contact in this area. What hyperdrive systems are aboard the ships?"

"Our scans have been unable to determine that, sir."

"I want to learn more about them. Transmit a message that they are to stand down and prepare for boarding. Tractor one of the closer ships into our main hangar."

"Sir, based on the language they were transmitting, they may not understand our intent."

"If the ship we select resists capture, neutralize it. Do the same with any others that attempt to either interfere or escape. Prepare a boarding team"

"Yes sir."

...

"Sir, our ship is being pulled toward that alien ship!" shouted the captain of the lead ship over the communications system, "We can't break free! Should we power up weapons?"

Martin was aghast and unable to speak. He watched in horror as his lead ship moved toward the giant arrowhead-shaped alien ship, though its engines were clearly not active. What was this all about? Were they not receiving his messages of greeting? He didn't know what to do.

"Do not activate your weapons or shields," barked Captain Beck into the intercom, gently pushing his employer aside.

"But they are pulling us toward them with, uh, I don't know how!"

"Let them. From what I can see, we have no way to resist them, and we are too close to those black holes to make a hyperspace jump. Even if we could, we don't know anything about this galaxy or have any star charts for it."

Captain Beck glanced at his console. He knew the other ship captains were rocked by events, and he himself was just barely maintaining his composure. He watched as one of the contacts indicating one of the trail ships began to turn in order to reenter the wormhole.

"Do not attempt to turn around or go anywhere. Stay in formation!" shouted Captain Beck into his console, "We don't know what that ship will..."

Bright blue bolts flashed from the large alien ship and lanced to the rear of Beck's vessel. They slammed into the ship that was attempting to make for the wormhole. As blue lightening danced about the ship's hull, its internal systems sputtered and died, and inertia continued to carry it forward in a lopsided drift, away from the other ships.

"For Seldon's sake!" shouted Captain Beck, "I said do _not _break formation! Power down all engines, and keep your weapon systems inactive. Do not make any more moves to provoke them."

Martin's face was pale, and he appeared to be on the verge of going into shock. He was clearly out of his element. Martin had dealt with space pirates before, but these were no mere pirates. Beck signaled to one of his crewmen and motioned toward Martin. The crewman gently led Martin off the bridge. Beck had been a crewman within the Foundation Navy during the conquest of the Mule, so he was somewhat more accustomed to the reality of combat situations. He relied upon that experience now to seize and retain command and control of the small trader fleet.

Beck watched through the view plates as the lead ship was pulled into a large underbelly hangar on the alien ship. He checked his console, and he saw that message of greeting was still being broadcast in a continuous loop. He decided to mute the shrill transmissions emanating from the hapless ship within that invisible but irresistible grip. Hearing that over loudspeaker would do his crew no good.


	3. Chapter 3

******Chapter 3**

R. Robert Flynn was ancient, though he was not so old as the one who directed him from the moon base in the legendary home system containing planet few knew of as Earth. For more than ten thousand years, Robert had roamed the galaxy, executing missions for R. Daneel Olivaw. During that time he had faced multiple challenges, and he had been in danger of being permanently shut down on more than one occasion. During none of those times had he felt any real fear. Emotions were optional for him anyway. His positronic brain was very complex, and it was sufficiently capable of emulating emotions that Robert knew no differently, and so emotions were as real to him as they would be to any other human. Though he could shut off the emotions, he had chosen long ago not to do so.

Even so, Robert felt the emulation of fear creeping into him now. Aboard this ship, he was just a member of the trader crew. Here, he was the first officer, second in command to the ship's captain. Like Daneel, Robert had been specially programmed to detect and manipulate emotions of human beings, although his abilities were nowhere near as powerful as those of Daneel. The overwhelming sense of fear throughout the small ship's bridge was palpable to him now. It was easy to understand why, and he had his own reasons to be afraid. Nobody here knew he was a robot. Indeed, nobody here knew of robots at all.

The view screens on the bridge showed the growing image of a very large, arrowhead-shaped star ship, and they were being pulled steadily toward it. Like the rest of the crew, Robert could not see what was pulling their ship, nor could their instruments detect it. That in itself was unsettling. The view screens had magnified several aspects of the larger arrowhead-shaped ship pulling them in, and Robert saw very large gun emplacements menacingly tracking his ship, while other gun emplacements remained oriented on the remainder of the trader fleet behind him. One such emplacement had recently belched forth brilliant blue beams that quickly incapacitated a trader ship attempting to flee, that ship still floating dead in space. For all Robert knew, all the men aboard that vessel were now dead. The view screen showed that their own ship was moving toward a massive opening within the belly of the larger ship.

"Should we open fire, captain?" queried a nervous man seated at a nearby panel.

"Space, no!" cried Captain Ethers.

Robert concurred silently with that assessment. Doubtless, the ship pulling them in would lace them with more of those horrible blue beams were they to do something so rash, or perhaps even worse. The view screen was now completely swallowed up by the larger ship, and Robert heard the sound of something large clamping onto his ship, and felt it reverberate throughout. Men on the bridge looked up and about them nervously.

"What was that?" asked another man, his face a mask of stark terror.

"Who knows!" replied Robert, "all we can do is wait."

A console on the captain's chair crackled to life.

"Captain, something is going on with our outer hatch door!" said a voice from the speaker.

"What do you mean?"

"There is a noise coming from the … wait. _Aaah!_ Something is blasting the door open. There is…"

Everyone on the bridge heard what sounded like a small explosion, followed by blaster fire, only short and more intense in nature. Shouting could also be heard, but it was quickly subdued, replaced by the clanking of what sounded like multiple foot-falls.

"Seldon help us," murmured the captain.

...

"Did it make it back through?"

"Yes sir."

"Well?"

General Pritchard pulled a small data stick out of his vest pocket and inserted it into the terminal. In front of the throne of the Mule sprang up a holographic image of a fleet of seven small trader ships. Floating in space before the fleet and facing it was a rather menacing ship with a arrowhead-shaped body and a command tower toward the rear of the vessel.

"Sir, the commander of the trader fleet did broadcast a standard welcoming message on multiple bands as soon as they detected that ship."

They watched as the lead vessel of the fleet lurched toward the alien ship without sub-light engines engaged, and then the trail ship turned to leave. Salvos of blue energy lanced outward from the alien ship and slammed into the hull of the trail ship, leaving it dead in space.

"Interesting," said the Mule, his expression unreadable.

"Their weapon systems appear formidable, sir, and the power signatures from that salvo alone demonstrate a level considerably beyond those of our own capital warships."

"So it would seem, Pritcher. Did our probe gain anything significant from scans, other than what I can plainly see here?"

"Unfortunately, our scans did not detect much. As you know, the multiple celestial bodies and immense gravitational signatures in that area create significant challenges for us. Even so, the ship in question appears to be shielded. We detected high-energy scans, possibly emitting from those globes you see on top of that command tower."

"Are you sure our probe was not detected?"

"We cannot be certain, sir, but the fact we are seeing this imagery at all attests to the likelihood that it was either not detected, or it was detected too late for that ship to target and immobilize it before it could return through the wormhole."

"I think I may have to depart sooner than I had planned."

The Mule stood and paced away from the holographic image floating before his throne. He clasped his skinny hands behind his back and walked toward the massive windows overlooking the city. Peering outward, his long nose followed his gaze toward the stars. He knew of at least one star out there that did not owe him allegiance. For a long time had he allowed himself to ignore it. Indeed, even ancient Imperial charts did not include it, but the Mule knew it was there. He knew that those upon it yet sensed him, as he in turn sensed them. Together they were powerful, perhaps too powerful even for him. He sneered silently. So long as they left him alone, he would do the same. Let them keep their one world. He had the rest of the galaxy. He peered in the direction of the wormhole, or where he thought it might lie in space. A new galaxy awaited, and this one apparently contained formidable opponents. The Mule smiled at his pale reflection in the tall window. He appreciated a challenge. He turned to face his general.

"We leave tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Is that a problem, Pritcher?"

"Not at all, sir, I will have your ship prepared for immediate launch."

Han Pritcher spun on his heel and made for the exit. The Mule allowed his thoughts to drift. Even were he to depart tonight, it would take a few days to reach the wormhole. Much could take place between now and then – much that he might not be able to directly control.

...

Everything here was ordered. Trees grew in neat rows, though they had not been planted by human hands. The weather was predictable, and everyone knew precisely when the rain would fall. Indeed, the people looked forward to the rainfall, which was never too cold, and they would not think to prevent the rain from soaking into their skin. No weather control satellites were in orbit. All that was in orbit was an ancient orbital reception station for incoming star ships, though no ships had paid a visit for many centuries. Consciousness permeated the entire land, including animals, plant-life, and even the soil and rock itself. The entire planet was alive, for this was _Gaia_, as were all upon the surface of the name the world shared.

_He is moving_.

Nothing was said, and no words were spoken. Nonetheless, the words were heard within his mind. An old man sat in his chair, within his living domicile. His eyes were cast upon living art upon his wall, relishing in its own crude consciousness. The words formed within his mind were from all of Gaia itself, though the genesis of the thought was mostly human in origin. There was no need to query of whom was, "he," for they all knew. Gaia knew. He had left long ago, a self-made outcast with mental powers greater than any of the parts, but not the sum.

The old man closed his eyes and looked. Through Gaia, he too saw the man moving through the depths of space. The misshapen form of a man … a mutant, with an extraordinarily powerful mind, focused on his task at hand. His ship streaked with purpose toward the galactic center. There he would wait. Gaia foresaw this. Much beyond that they could not see. Through his mind, and through Gaia, the old man saw the Mule look up, a frown creasing his face.

_Enough!_

The Mule roared the word within his mind, sending a psychic shockwave through space toward the world from which he had exiled himself. The old man felt Gaia raise its psychic shield almost reflexively, to ward off the Mule's powerful psychic shout. Yes, just as they could see him, so he could see Gaia, when he/she/it probed, though most of the time the Mule chose not to see. Anger and defiance permeated that shout, the Mule sending a clear message: They could not stop him before, and they would not stop him now.

The old man sensed as Gaia broke his/her/its connection with its lost son, and he sighed softly to himself. Gaia had not involved itself with the Mule's conquest of this galaxy, for they knew that that he could not live forever, and then life in the galaxy would have gone on as before, albeit in a more chaotic manner. They had been tempted, though even their combined power might have proved insufficient. Had the Mule sent forces, those forces would have proved useless, and he knew it. No, the Mule would have had to confront Gaia in person, and that seemed to be the one thing he would never do.

But Gaia had sensed something within that new galaxy, even through the wormhole itself. Powerful forces lie on the other side, with deadly technologies of war and industry, combined together on a massive scale. Further, they sensed a being of immense power, perhaps capable of defying the Mule himself. Unlike the Mule, they sensed true malevolency in this being, capable perhaps of bringing terrible destruction and death to this galaxy.

The old man watched the living art upon the living wall as it slowly transitioned colors and patterns, its own consciousness lending to all of Gaia in its own simple way. He smiled wanly and then lent his own mental voice to the collective whole.

_We may have to act this time._

...

"Sir, we have secured the ship."

An Imperial stormtrooper stood before Captain Poltz on the bridge of the _ISD Ash_, ramrod straight, a blaster carbine held at port-arms. While no outer markings identified him as such, Poltz knew the stormtrooper was an army lieutanant, in command of the company that had been tasked with securing the alien ship. He had been following reports of the boarding while simultaneously monitoring the remainder of the alien fleet, so the verbal report from the officer standing in front of him was mostly a formality.

"And the passengers?"

"Two were killed, six stunned, and the remaining twenty were taken into custody, sir."

"Why were two killed?"

"The two were armed and the first two troopers through the breach identified them as imminent threats, sir."

"Unfortunate, but understood. From now on, when dealing with persons in this strange fleet, I want all weapons set to stun only."

"Yes sir."

"Thank you, lieutenant. You may begin tactical questioning. Scan and clear the ship's captain, and then bring him here. I wish to question him in person."

"Yes sir."

"Dismissed."

The stormtrooper officer turned and then exited the bridge. Captain Poltz strolled toward the huge view plates, and he looked at the small assortment of ships. With the naked eye, they looked like little more than bright points of light, their small hulls reflecting light from the multiple sources of light within this system. One of those points of light continued to drift away from the others.

"Deck officer."

"Sir?"

"Dispatch a boarding team to secure that disabled ship."

"Yes sir."

Within minutes, Captain Poltz saw an assault transport race from beneath the _Ash_, en route to the disabled craft. He hoped they were still alive, knowing that the ion cannons might have disabled life support aboard the craft. He studied the instruments on a nearby panel, reading through reports of the encounter so far. Something caught his attention.

"Deck officer, come here." The younger officer walked up to him and stood at attention.

"Sir?"

"I want more information about this small craft that disappeared shortly after we disabled that trail alien ship."

"Yes sir." The young officer walked down into one of the pits, speaking to some of the analysts. He then came back and resumed his position next to the ship's captain, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Yes?"

"Sir, we believe it was possibly a probe, and it entered what might be a wormhole, behind the alien fleet."

"Is this wormhole still in the same place?"

"We believe so, sir."

"Good. Ensure you mark its position. Once that is done, dispatch one of our own probe droids through."

"Yes sir."

Captain Poltz returned his attention to the small fleet before him. By now, the assault transport would have reached the drifting ship. Hopefully, he would get no further reports of fatalities. One could not interrogate dead men. He heard one of the doors of the bridge slide open, along with strange language from a man, obviously both confused and frightened.

Poltz turned and strode toward the center of the bridge. He noticed some of the men in the crew pits looking at the man in strange clothing. The man was flanked by two storm troopers, each who held one of the man's arms. He was not in a uniform, so the man was apparently a civilian. He was a bit portly, and his hair was dark, speckled with gray, and balding. He continuously uttered nonsense as he looked around the bridge with an air of both awe and concern.

"Silence!" shouted Poltz as he held up his hand. The man appeared to understand the meaning of his upheld hand if not his words, and he obediently shut his mouth. Good, thought Poltz. At least he didn't seem to be irreparably stupid. Whirring of servo motors and clicking of metallic foot-falls announced the arrival of a darkly-plated protocol droid. As it shuffled mechanically toward the captain and his guest, the civilian started in alarm, pointing at the droid with one of his restrained arms, uttering something else in his native language. Again, Captain Breck held up his hand, and again the civilian shut up.

"Protocol droid, ask this man who he is."

The droid turned to the man and said something in another language. The civilian shook his head in confusion, looking back at Poltz. The droid tried a different language, and the man responded in his own gibberish, still shaking his head. The droid continued conversing, and a few minutes later, the man became a bit excited, his tone increasing. The droid turned to face Poltz.

"Sir, I am fluent in several million forms of communication, and the language this man is using is not in any of my memory banks. I think I have managed to decipher part of his language's construct."

"Well, what did he say?"

The droid looked toward the civilian again, and then he jerked his head back toward Poltz.

"Hello, I _think_."

"Brilliant. Now, find out who he is, and ask him why he is here."

The protocol droid continued to converse with the man, while the man gazed at the droid with unbroken fascination. Poltz smirked inwardly. It was almost as if the man had never seen a droid before. After approximately ten minutes of discourse between man and droid, the protocol droid returned his attention to Poltz.

"Sir, he claims to be a leader of the ship you captured. He said he is here to trade goods with those here who would desire them. He does not understand what laws he has broken to be arrested. His name is Bel Moros. That is of course, if I understood him correctly, for although I am fluent in millions of forms of communication, the language syntax and dialect this man is using are quite unfamil…"

"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Polz, "I want you to ask where he came from."

...

He waited behind all others and was the last to enter the scanner within the confines of this large alien ship. Robert waited until all surviving crewmen went through, both to maintain accountability as the executive officer and to prevent his own men from discovering what he was. Perhaps these white-clad aliens would attempt to stun him and damage the delicate neural matrix of his positronic brain.

The white armored skull-like visage of a storm trooper ushered him into a small chamber. Robert stepped inside and heard the door swish closed behind him. He watched as a red light filled the room, a voice through speakers providing directions he could not understand. Even so, he did not move, assessing that was the intent behind the spoken directive.

Robert gauged how long each man had spent in this chamber by monitoring the line of men going through. Already, he detected he had been in longer than the others. The red light changed into a stuttering of various colors, and Robert detected a high-pitched whine. From that, he assumed he was being thoroughly scanned. A voice with a questioning inflection emanated from the speaker within the room. Robert held up his hands and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand you."

The far door to the chamber slid open. Two storm troopers stood at either side of its entrance, both with their carbines leveled at Robert. A tinny voice came from the one on the right, its inflection suggesting an order. Robert raised his hands in the air and slowly walked forward. As he emerged, one of the white-armored men jabbed him behind the right knee with the butt-stock of his carbine, and Robert collapsed onto his knees. His hands were then forced behind him and manacled with some restraints. He was pulled up by his arms roughly, and questions were shouted at him from one of the armored men. Again, Robert shook his head in confusion.

...

"Sir, we have the incapacitated ship under control. The crew has been neutralized."

Poltz turned to face the deck officer, his voice stern, "Neutralized?"

"Sir, they have been detained, and there were no fatalities, though we had to stun five of them."

"Very good, thank you deck officer," said Poltz with an internal sigh of relief. He turned to face the civilian with whom he had been conversing through the protocol droid. This was very taxing.

"Let me get this straight. This man claims to be part of that fleet out there, which is here for the purposes of establishing some sort of trade route?"

"Yes sir," replied the droid.

"He says that there is a galaxy, different from our own, on the other side of that wormhole we recently discovered?"

"Yes sir."

"And he is a member of an empire, led by someone calling himself some type of pack animal?"

"Yes sir."

"This 'pack animal' is the emperor of the galaxy on the other side of that wormhole?"

"Yes sir, though he did not seem to indicate him as emperor, but rather as something akin to biggest citizen."

"Ah, very well then, and he said there is a sizable fleet on the other side, consisting of military ships from that empire?"

"He does not know for certain that they were all military ships, sir, but they all appeared heavily armed, so he believes they were."

"Very well," replied Poltz, "Deck officer!"

"Sir?"

"Escort this man to interrogation. Let us ensure he is not lying."

"Yes sir."

"Work with the protocol droid to devise a message for the remainder of that fleet out there, and then send another one to the interrogation room. Inform that alien fleet that any attempts to move or escape will be met with swift and deadly force, but try not to induce panic.

"Yes sir."

As the civilian leader exited the bridge with his two storm trooper escorts, another officer entered the bridge.

"Sir."

"Yes?"

"One of the captured crewmen is a droid."

"What of it?"

"It appears human in all respects, and much of its body appears constructed to resemble a human male."

"A possible assassin droid – those are _expensive_; very well, detain it separately from the others."

...

"He is coming back to the bridge now, sir."

Captain Beck watched as Martin reentered the bridge, his wits a bit more under control now. He was still pale, but he appeared in control of himself. Martin stared with terror at the arrowhead-shaped ship on the view screen.

"It took one of our ships?"

"Yes sir. Approximately 45 minutes ago, it was secured underneath the larger ship in what I deduce to be a hangar."

"Well, what did they do…"

"Sir!" shouted a crewman from a nearby panel, "We've got an incoming transmission from the alien vessel."

"Put it on speaker."

Crackling static over the speakers cleared and was replaced by what sounded like a mechanical voice speaking horribly accented Galactic Standard.

"… and to remain in place you will stay or violent death will consume you in wrath and judgment from big tubes of fire. Your men who by us were recently made to be in cages are now receiving beatings most furious for information about the land from which came you, but you can prevent bigger beatings for self by doing as told by us most fast. Again, move not or violent death will consume you. End."

"Great Seldon, preserve us!" shrieked Martin, who had all the appearances of a desperate and cornered animal. The captain too had turned as white as a sheet, but he knew he had to maintain order.

"Sir, please calm yourself."

"Those savages mean to murder us all!"

"Sir, you can see that they obviously have an incomplete understanding of Galactic Standard, and it is quite probable that had they intended to blast us from space, they'd have done so by now."

Martin was still breathing quickly, tiny beads of sweat rolling from his forehead, and the wild look in his eyes remained, but he licked his lips and nodded rapidly in understanding.

"Yes … yes, I'm sure you're right. We must remain calm."

Beck turned to one of his crewmen, "Contact the rest of the fleet. Inform them to remain in place, and keep both shields and weapons powered down."

He murmured to himself, "Space, I really don't feel like being blasted into atoms today."


	4. Chapter 4

The ship in which the First Citizen sat was the fastest ship in the galaxy. Foundation technicians spared no expense in designing her. She was a relatively small ship, only three hundred meters in length, but her state-of-the-art gravitic engines, highly-complex computers systems, shields, and weapon systems coalesced into a wonderful symphony of separate parts into one whole. To the outsider, the ship would appear little different from a medium-sized passenger ship, because the systems crammed into the vessel were carefully streamlined and molded.

None of that concerned the Mule. He sat alone within his quarters with his eyes closed. _They_ had recently reached out to him again, probing ever so softly. For many years, the Mule had considered sending a fleet of remote control ships to finally devour his former home planet, but it too knew of his desires and designs. So he knew deep within that such a maneuver would have proved futile. Somehow, he/she/they would have prevented it and once again made him look like a fool, if only to himself. He frowned in frustration. They were but a minor nuisance, but his utter inability to deal with them on his own terms left him coldly furious. _Enough_, he thought to himself. He would dwell on them no more.

Through his mind, he reached deep into the core. The emotions emanating from there told him nothing new, and so he knew that nothing but his own probe had yet returned from the heavily-guarded wormhole. It would be insufficient though, and he knew it. Only the amount of damage the aliens would inflict was in question. He had seen the weapon systems on that strange ship. Certainly, they overwhelmed only a lightly-armed civilian trader fleet, but he knew well the capabilities and limitations of his warships waiting on the other side. They would not long repel firepower of that magnitude, and he had no idea of how his own forces' firepower would fare against the alien ship.

Worse, he was now blind. It had been a calculated risk, but he still felt it a worthwhile one. Once his own probe had returned, he dared send nothing further through the wormhole. The Mule stretched out his lanky limbs and conducted a relaxing breathing exercise. He could affect nothing further until he arrived. The next move was theirs.

…

"What is your operating number?" demanded the man in the dark grey uniform. He wore a series of blue and red plastic-looking rectangles in rows on the left side of his tunic, and he swiveled his head to what appeared to be a gold-plated robot to his right. The man appeared to have no emotional reaction to the robot's presence, but his facial expression betrayed that the robot was clearly in a subservient role. To either side of the man in uniform and the gold robot were two beings clad in all-white armor, including helmets that reminded him somewhat of skulls. Both beings held what appeared to be blasters, leveled at him. The gold robot swiveled its head toward R. Robert Flynn.

"You manufacture designation is what?" it said in barely-passable Galactic Standard. It was clear that these aliens had no grasp of his own galaxy's native language. Robert was indeed far from home.

"I am terribly sorry friend, but I have no idea what you mean," replied Robert.

He watched as the robot turned and spouted gibberish to the man in uniform. Well, it wasn't exactly gibberish anymore. Robert was a robot himself, and his positronic brain had collected everything said around him in the strange new tongue, since he had been brought aboard the large alien vessel. He was a highly-complex machine, and his positronic brain busily worked at deciphering the alien tongue. He was beginning to make sense of the sentence construct being used between the other robot – no – it was called a "droid" instead of a robot, and the man in uniform. Words now coalesced within Robert's positronic mind, as he carefully studied the movement of the uniformed man's mouth. He also now gathered that the man was an officer, though that epiphany came not so much from the language being spoken as from the behavior Robert observed. And so even before the "droid" turned its head again to address Robert, he had a pretty good idea of what it would say.

"Our devices for scan showed plain you are man mechanical. No human. Why untruth maintain you?"

Robert smiled inwardly, while he maintained a carefully passive countenance. Part of his programming urged him to break for it and get away from these men, for self-preservation was indeed one of the main laws by which he was governed. He quickly shoved down those urges, understanding the underlying futility. This man knew he was a robot, and he didn't seem to care. Well, he did care, but for an entirely different reason. Robert was beginning to suspect why. He wanted to address the man directly, but he still did not yet comprehend him sufficiently to make that possible. So he addressed the droid instead, while keeping his eyes fixed upon the officer.

"Ah, I misunderstood friend. Yes, I am a robot, or a droid if you prefer, but as to manufacturer, I have none. You see, none of the men in my crew are aware that I'm a droid."

The metal-plated droid turned its photoreceptors to the officer and translated, Robert understanding a bit more of what was being relayed in the alien tongue. The officer looked unconvinced, and he queried further.

"All men mechanical are manufacture designated by organization, so from what organization manufacture were you?"

Robert winced at the horrible translation, and he gauged it the correct time to attempt direct communication, so he addressed the officer directly in Basic.

"Me is droid yes, but me not made by organization/company because droids in galaxy home is very little in numbers and not known to beings from galaxy. We is to them mystery." He gave himself a mental wink, pleased with his first attempt at direct communication. The officer appeared taken aback, but only for a short while. He motioned his own interpreter droid to the side.

"Well somebody manufactured you, but we'll get to that later! What I want to know is what you are doing here, since you're obviously an assassin droid." Part of what the man had said made no sense to Robert, so he motioned the metal droid to translate it. He then laughed.

"Assassination droid? Me? No, because the laws for under which we droids fall refuse it."

Seeing the look of confusion on the man's face, he continued, "Three laws are we droids under which allow us no to hurt humans."

The man held up his hand and then picked up what appeared to be a communication device. He spoke in a lowered voice, but Robert had no difficulty picking up every word with his own enhanced audio reception capabilities. The officer was asking for guidance from someone on the other end of the communication device and describing what he thought he had learned. The officer became especially animated when he discussed the laws of robotics. He then nodded his head after receiving guidance, which Robert had seen humans from his own galaxy do when responding to others who could not see them. He returned his attention to Robert.

"You say you can't hurt humans?"

"Me? No, personally I cannot," replied Robert. That wasn't strictly true, because the _Zeroth Law_ overrode the original three, which would allow him to hurt individual humans, if it served to protect humanity as a whole. But he was not required to reveal that law, and he had no intention of doing so.

"From where do you come?"

"I come from the same galaxy as the fleet of merchant ships outside your window," Replied Robert. Part of the words made no sense to the officer, so Robert rephrased them so that they did. The officer nodded.

"But you said you cannot hurt humans. Does that go for aliens too?"

Robert frowned. The word, "alien" made no sense to him, outside of the fact that the officer himself was to Robert an alien.

"I don't understand, unless you mean yourself or the two man guards behind you. No, hurt them I could not."

"Yes, but _we're_ human, and you've already stated you cannot hurt humans."

"Right."

"But what about aliens? What about non-humans?"

"You mean other droids?"

"No, you idiot machine! I mean non-human _sentient_ beings."

It was Robert's turn to be shocked. Non-human sentient beings? What did the officer mean? The galaxy was comprised entirely of a human population. Sure, there had been old myths and legends about non-human alien races, but those were tall tales for children. Was this new galaxy different? Did aliens exist here? What would that mean for the _Laws of Robotics_? Did those apply to non-humans? Well, no, Robert couldn't see how they would. The Laws of Robotics were written specifically for human beings – not aliens. Robert decided he had revealed too much too soon, and he would have to more carefully guard what he said.

…

_Has he arrived yet?_

_No, but he is close._

The two men sat closely together in the dark compartment. They did not speak to each other, but each understood the other clearly. The First Speaker of the Second Foundation stared intently at the floor, and he returned his gaze to the other man. The other man's name was Jon Sulvin, and he was one of the agents tasked with tracking the Mule's movements throughout the galaxy. Both men were aboard a trading freighter, or at least it _looked_ like a trading freighter to anyone else. In reality, the ship possessed one of the earlier forms of gravitic drive, though it also possessed nuclear drives conventional of such ships. The gravitic drive was masked, so as not to reveal itself to scans. But now it was engaged, and the freighter was in the midst of one of many hyperspace jumps toward the galactic core.

To be sure, the Mule was in a much faster ship, and he would arrive long before the Second Foundation's agents. That was not a great concern though, for they could do little more than observe once they arrived. It was still far too soon to do anything else.

_What of our agents at the wormhole?_

_They know nothing new._

The Second Foundation's agents were all carefully placed within cellular structures that if compromised could reveal very little. It had happened twice before, when the Mule's own agents had uncovered Second Foundation cells. The Mule himself turned those agents, and now they were his ardent servants. Contingency plans had already been in place though, so collateral damage was minimal. Still, the loss of just two Second Foundation agents was a serious blow in an organization that numbered so few. Recruiting their replacements had taken many months.

The First Speaker was certain of one thing: He was uncomfortable with what was allegedly on the other side of that wormhole. If the reports he had received were to be believed, an incredibly powerful civilization lay on the other side, poised to strike his home galaxy.

…

"Sir, the probe is away," announced the deck officer aboard the _Imperial Star Destroyer_ _Ash_. Captain Poltz watched the probe fly toward the wormhole, past the small fleet of civilian merchant ships all of which now had Imperial storm troopers aboard. The probe then reached the point where they believed the anomaly to be. He couldn't see it with the naked eye, but the ship's sensors had a lock on it. The probe then vanished.

"Sir, the _Punishment_, _Vengeance_, and _Iron Fist_ have entered the system and are moving into over-watch positions," announced the deck officer from the starboard command trench. Captain Poltz nodded in acknowledgement. That made three more Star Destroyers from the sector fleet, along with their associated escorts and tenders. It seemed that High Command was taking this seriously. Poltz nodded.

"Maintain a firing solution relative to the anomaly."

"Yes sir."

"Bring the captured assassin droid here."

Poltz kept his gaze locked on to the colorful display put forth by the terrific energies churning within the maw, and he heard the storm troopers approach from behind. He did not turn before addressing the droid.

"I'm given to understand that you can now decipher and speak Galactic Basic."

"Yes. Speak your language I can to part way," replied the human-looking droid from behind him with heavily-accented Basic. Poltz turned to face the droid, taking in his unassuming visage. The droid was actually rather dumpy-looking, his brown hair was receding, and age lines on his face made him appear to be in his 50s. The droid gazed back at Poltz with light-green eyes, and Poltz could see no sign of fear within them. That meant that this was indeed an impressive and deadly assassin droid. A squad of storm troopers stood at various locations on the bridge, ready to cut it down if it made a wrong move, and of course it was flanked by two others holding their carbines at port-arms.

"Your designation is R. Robert Flynn, and you were manufactured in the galaxy on the other side of that anomaly from which your merchant fleet emerged. Is that correct?"

"Yes it is as you say."

"How do I know if you are lying or not?"

"You cannot know, but a reason for lying I am short … er, I do not have."

"And yet you said your crew did not know that you were a droid," replied Poltz skeptically, "How is that not lying?"

"It was protection."

"From what?"

"Themselves."

"Why would they need…"

"Sir!" shouted the deck officer. Poltz turned to regard the officer, who was positioned next to one of the scopes in the starboard trench.

"Report."

"Sir, the anomaly is reacting. Something may be preparing to emerge."

Poltz turned to gaze out of the giant transparencies. Of course he could see nothing with the naked eye from this distance.

"Prepare to engage whatever comes through, but use ion canons only. I want whatever it is disabled, not destroyed."

"Yes sir."

Shortly thereafter, from the star destroyer lanced giant blue bolts that raced toward the anomaly. Poltz could see nothing more, but the ship's gun tubes grew silent.

"Sir, the object is dead in space," announced the deck officer, "A recovery team is prepared for launch."

"Launch them," said Polz, "but I want a wing of TIE fighters in over-watch."

From beneath the belly of the star destroyer, a recovery shuttle with fighter escort raced to meet the disabled object floating just in front of the anomaly.

…

"Sir, it's away," announced General Prichard.

The Mule nodded slowly, his fingers steepled before him. The probe they sent forward would almost certainly be destroyed, but he hoped whoever was on the other side would instead disable it. He knew the ships could fire blue bolts just for that purpose, so he had ensured that a smaller probe was sent through. Anything larger would almost certainly be perceived as a threat and destroyed.

No, the aliens on the other side would most likely disable and capture the probe. Within the probe, a video message awaited that told of a terrific galaxy-spanning war and refugees desperately seeking shelter anywhere they could find it. Those who had constructed the video used footage from the Mule's own conquest of the galaxy, including the overthrow of the last vestiges of the old Galactic Empire and the much more modern and deadly forces of the Foundation. It painted a convincing picture, and it was designed for one purpose: Draw the invaders into his galaxy.

As of now, they had the trader fleet, and their own stories would differ. That was okay. Confusion could only aid him.

"How much longer?"

"Sir, we should arrive within an hour," replied the Prichard. The Mule smiled. All was proceeding according to plan.

…

_He has nearly arrived._

The men stared at instruments within their small compartment, and mere glances at each other embodied what would be minutes-long conversations between those outside the Second Foundation. They continued their own hyperspace jumps toward the galactic core, but their ship was no match for the computational speed and gravitic drive of the Mule's ship. Indeed, the First Speaker found himself astonished at the speed at which the Mule's ship was capable. Still, they steadfastly continued their trek, refining their plan upon arrival.

_They sent something else through_, replied the Speaker known as Greg Chen.

_Then the others will send through their large ships to conduct a reconnaissance in force_, replied the First Speaker.

_That seems likely._

Reports suggested that the alien ships were large and powerful, likely more so that the ships of the Mule himself. The Mule's vessels were arrayed in such a way to be prepared to repel an attack through the wormhole. And of course, the Mule's force stationed at the wormhole was enormous. He knew that yet other sector fleets remained within quick hyperspace jumps in case those stationed at the wormhole were quickly overwhelmed.

_Can we take control of the flagship?_

_We can, but if the Mule is present, he will detect it._

The First Speaker nodded slowly. It was too risky to move this early. They would watch and wait, for now.

…

Through the wormhole glided the narrow bow of the _Imperial Star Destroyer Ash_. Immediately, blue bolts belched forth from her giant gun tubes, slamming into multiple oblong capital ships being simultaneously targeted. In reply, powerful q-beams found their marks on the side of the star destroyer. From beneath the behemoth wedge-shaped ship poured a cloud of TIE fighters, spreading out in search-and-destroy patterns. Within minutes, stationary gun emplacements were smoldering ruins, none of them able to track the tiny and quick-maneuvering fighters as they laced them with laser canon fire.

"Sir, two enemy ships have been neutralized, and approximately thirteen capital ships remain on our scopes."

"Very good," replied Polz, "Damage report?"

"Sir, our shields are holding, but we have lost seventeen fighters."

"Still no sign of enemy fighters?"

"No sir."

Poltz stared out of the transparency, watching the strange alien ships close in and fire on the Ash. The beams were stressing the shields, and his ship could not take this pounding continuously. He sighed.

"Send a message back through the anomaly. We could use reinforcements. Once the stationary emplacements are neutralized, recall the TIE fighters. I see no reason for them to continue presenting themselves as targets."

"Yes sir. Our forward port shields are in danger of collapsing."

"Destroy the ships firing from that direction."

Now, instead of just blue bolts, bright green bolts mixed with the blue and slammed into the strange oblong ships harrying his ship from the port side. In short order, two of the nearly kilometer-long ships were belching atmosphere and bodies into space, and their guns fell silent. Within just fifteen minutes of battle, more seven enemy ships lay dormant, and two were destroyed. This was too easy. Nothing was ever this easy.

"Broadcast the message," ordered Poltz. The captured droid had assisted in composing the message, adding that it was in his programming parameters to preserve human life, and a quick cessation of hostilities was optimal for achieving those ends. Despite the message now being broadcast, the enemy ships showed no signs of abating fire.

"Sir, the _Punishment_ has come through."

"Instruct them to use ion canons only, if possible. Transmit our target list."

Poltz watched blue bolts race through space through the starboard transparencies, and he knew the _Punishment_ had joined the fight. Suddenly, Polz felt within himself a strange sense of dread and hopelessness creeping up on him. Why was he fighting? This fleet had not fired upon him first. More alien oblong ships jumped into the system and added their guns to the maelstrom. The intensity of enemy fire rose considerably.

"Sir, we've lost the forward starboard shields!" shouted an officer from the port-side trench, and an edge of panic laced his voice.

"Intensify firepower to neutralize that threat," replied a now unnerved Poltz, as he watched five more enemy capital ships jump into the system. The sense of dread and defeat was now overwhelming, and he shook his head as if to clear it. Through the transparencies, he saw two more enemy ships detonate in the silent vacuum of space.

"Sir, a message from the _Punishment_! They're standing down and preparing to be boarded!"

"What!"

"Yes sir. All enemy ships are now firing on the _Ash_. Our shields won't hold long under this assault."

"Turn us around!" shrieked Poltz, "and make for the anomaly."

"Sir, three ships are now directly behind us and in front of the anomaly. Sir, we've lost our starboard mid shields! There are breaches on multiple decks!"

Poltz felt numb, as he felt his mighty vessel rock under repeated assaults. Alarms indicators lit multiple consoles, and the ship's alarms wailed a sad and continuous tune. He felt completely hopeless now and confused.

"Send a message of surrender," said Poltz blankly.

"We are beaten."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Within the ship's main cabin, the Mule bent forward in concentration, small beads of sweat cascading down his unhandsome face. General Han Pritcher did not interfere, having received a directive from his superior to remain silent and observe.

Pritcher turned from his boss to the forward view-screens piped into the cabin. Two kilometer-long, wedge-shaped ships had only minutes before wrecked enormous destruction on the defense platforms and fleet guarding the wormhole. Yet now, one floated dormant in space, awaiting boarding teams, and the other was now damaged, though not critically.

Were Pritcher in command of that ship, he knew he would order it to turn about and blast whatever was in its way in order to make for the wormhole. He had seen the reports of detailed scans of those ships and knew that their armament easily exceeded up to five or six much larger Seldon-class Battlecruisers. Yet both enemy ships were now all but beaten. Why? Were their commanders just incompetent? Why would they not at least order their ships' self-destruction in order to avoid capture by an unknown enemy?

As Pritcher perused the battle-space on the scopes, he noted no fewer than two dozen destroyed capital ships from his local sector fleet, not counting supporting destroyers, frigates, and other support ships. The firepower of those alien ships was simply staggering.

Hearing a sigh from behind, Pritcher turned and saw that the Mule was now more relaxed, the ghost of a smile forming upon his lips. His eyes remained unfocused as he spoke, "We'll see no more trouble from those two ships, Pritchard, but it is imperative that I board both vessels and meet with the alien commanders and senior staff officers as soon as possible."

…

Aboard the _Imperial Star Destroyer Ash_, a sense of overbearing hopelessness and dread pervaded, from the crews of the many gun emplacements to the bridge itself. For an hour, Captain Poltz watched as many more enemy capital ships jumped into the system, surrounding the two Imperial Star Destroyers and establishing blocking positions. Poltz could not think clearly. He could not shake the dread and defeat eating into his bones. He could not help but feel that they had no business here, and this alien fleet cared not how many they lost – their cause was righteous. _What!?_ Why was he _thinking_ like this? What of his men and this crew?

Around the bridge, officers and crewmen alike sported visages of gloom and defeat. They all knew in their hearts that they could not win. All they could do was wait … for judgment. Not one officer approached the captain to offer tactical advice or to recommend a course of action.

R. Robert Flynn felt it too, but unlike the men on this bridge with him from another galaxy, he knew what was happening. His configuration and programming was sensitive to psychic energy, and what he could sense even with his limited capabilities was off the scale. This could be nothing other than the work of the Mule. Certainly, he had read reports of this phenomenon, and academically he knew what was happening. But reports did not do justice to what he now witnessed. The men all around him were frozen with dread and defeat. Flynn could feel the powerful mutant's psychic pressure even upon his own mind, though unlike the humans around him, he was programmed to resist such pressure. _Impressive!_

"Sir," said the adjutant off to the left of Captain Poltz.

Poltz turned a dejected gaze and replied, "Yes?"

"An shuttle from the enemy fleet of sufficient size to hold approximately five squads of stormtroopers is maneuvering toward the main docking bay."

Poltz remained silent for a moment and then replied, "Very well. We will go meet them."

"Captain Poltz, sir!" barked Flynn.

Poltz appeared surprised to see the human-looking droid speak with such confidence. Well, why shouldn't he?

"Yes, _droid_?"

"Sir, it is imperative that you not reveal to anyone you meet from that delegation that I am a … droid."

Poltz now looked confused. He said, "Why is that?"

"Sir, I really don't know how to say this any other way, so I will just say it. Nobody in our galaxy is aware of the existence of droids."

"What?" replied Poltz, "That's absurd!"

"Even so, sir, it is the case. You could gain nothing by telling them of my existence."

"So are you the only droid in your galaxy?" replied Poltz incredulously.

Flynn decided he had revealed enough. Using his own limited psychic ability, he reached into the mind of the captain and made some minor adjustments. It was all he could do for now. Were the captain to reveal his identification to the Mule, the fallout could be severe. His adjustment did little more than decrease the captain's interest in Flynn. With luck, the captain would not consider it worthwhile to share what he knew to the Mule or his forces.

Captain Poltz shook his head in momentary confusion, muttering, "Who cares about a blasted droid anyway?"

Then, seeming to forget that Flynn was there at all, the captain turned toward the bridge turbolift, escorted by the very stormtrooper contingent that had been guarding Flynn. Unlike the captain, Flynn had found it a bit easier to adjust the two guards.

…

Something was wrong. Captain Tor stared out the large triangular view-plates of his Star Destroyer toward the turbulent energies of the maw. It had been more than ninety standard minutes since the _Punishment_ had entered the anomaly, and not even one scout ship had returned to report. He had no other way of communicating with his cohorts on the other side.

Tor leaned forward in preparation of ordering his and the other remaining Imperial Star Destroyer into the anomaly.

"Captain Tor!" shouted a pit officer off toward the port side.

"Report," replied Tor, wiping a sleeve across his forehead, silently thankful for the interruption.

He could see … _something_ out toward the anomaly, knowing instinctively that his naked eye was woefully inadequate in comparison to the ship's highly capable sensors.

"Sir, a Lambda-class shuttle has emerged from the anomaly. It is under the command of a Commander Bellorq"

"That would be the deputy operations officer for the _Punishment_," replied Tor automatically. He knew the names of all senior staff officers within the local task force of the Imperial sector fleet.

"Yes sir, he is hailing us."

"Intercom."

A moment later, a screech sounded over the comms system, as the audio emitters adjusted for the vocal signal coming from the shuttle.

"This is Commander Bellorq of the _Star Destroyer Punishment_," sounded an imperious voice over the bridge intercom."

Tor provided the signal for mute and then said, "Verify that it's Bellorq speaking." The pit officer to whom he had signaled nodded and turned to a bank of consoles. Tor then provided another signal.

"Commander Bellorq, this is Captain Tor. Can you give me a situation report?"

"Sir," replied the disembodied voice over the intercom, "our task force initially encountered resistance from an alien fleet on the other side of the anomaly, but both the _Ash_ and _Punishment_ repelled the attack. Captain Poltz is now supervising consolidation of the objective and dispatching probes to further ascertain the nature, size, and composition of the threat."

Tor watched the Lambda-class shuttle grow within the view-plates. In accordance with standard operating procedures, the shields were still up. Tor turned and watched as a pit officer gave him an affirmative signal. The identity of Commander Bellorq had been verified, and scans revealed only a normal crew element aboard the shuttle. It had not been compromised. He gave the signal to lower the shields of the Star Destroyer.

"Very good, Commander. Report to the bridge for debriefing upon your arrival."

"Yes sir," replied the intercom.

Tor allowed himself a soft sigh of relief. He would not have to send through more forces just yet. Two Star Destroyers had proved more than sufficient for the task. He looked forward to a detailed report from Bellorq, along with any scans and recordings the officer had brought with him.

This sector of space was for the most part uneventful, save for the transfer of criminals to the penal facilities on Kessel or the slimy Hutts and their underhanded dealings. The Hutts were easy to deal with, since their ever-present greed and accompanying tactics were at least predictable.

This though had drawn unwanted attention from _Imperial Center_. It was rumored that the eyes of the Emperor himself were now fixed on this portion of his galaxy, and that was not something that Tor or his fellow officers desired. Tor was given to understand that he former chancellor and now emperor and his dark and powerful servant, Lord Vader, were ruthless in hunting down and crushing even rumors of dissention and discord. Tor wasn't stupid enough to search out such rumors. He had not made it this far into his career by making unwise choices.

For his part, he rather hoped that Commander Bellorq's report was accurate and the other side of that anomaly contained little in the way of threat. Still, he could not dispel a sense of dark foreboding.

…

Imperious in demeanor, General Han Pritchard strode down the corridors of the alien starship. Six members of his own marines in body armor flanked flanked him on either side, each of them holding blaster carbines at the low-ready. He was impressed by the menacing-looking full body armor of the all-white troopers that seemed to ubiquitous throughout the ship. To the rear and left of Pritchard, a disheveled form of a man, lanky and unkempt, shuffled along while casting furtive glances all about.

Pritchard smiled inwardly. This was the way of the Mule. Very few knew who he really was. The faces of power presented to others was never his own, with the exception of a very few. To anyone here but Pritchard (including the marines accompanying him), the Mule was little more than a downtrodden servant – someone of which nobody of importance would deign to take notice.

Nothing escaped the notice of the Mule. Like his subordinate, he too was impressed with what he witnessed. These … stormtroopers were a menacing lot. The uniform, all-covering helmets of the troopers put forth a vision of fearful authority to all who viewed them, the helmets somewhat reminiscent of leering skulls. Because the troopers wore helmets, it was impossible to see their facial expressions. What a stroke of genius! The Mule decided he would have to adopt something similar in his own forces.

The corridors of this ship were immaculate, and everything was ordered. Sure, the men aboard the ship looked defeated, but that was his own doing. His psychic projection held firm, but he could tell that these men were accustomed to extraordinary discipline and order.

As another large blast door hissed open, Pritchard and his detachment stepped forward to meet a shiny silver-plated robot. Nobody betrayed any surprise at spotting the machine. They had first run into something just like it on the other alien ship, so now they were better prepared. Nor was this robot the first they had seen even on this particular ship. The things were all over the place, and in multiple configurations and sizes. Pritchard understood that the robots were referred to as _droids_ by those from the other galaxy.

Next to the shiny robot stood what was obviously a high-ranking officer, judging from the number of blue and red squares on his rank plate. The officer was in turn flanked by two stormtroopers, each holding a blaster at port arms, their expressions unreadable. The officer spoke something to the robot. The robot then turned to Pritchard.

The droid said, "This is Captain Poltz of the _Imperial Star Destroyer Ash_. He is the a representative of the Galactic Empire and senior representative in _this_ galaxy of Emperor Palpatine himself."

Pritchard nodded and turned to the officer.

"Welcome to our galaxy, Captain Poltz. It is unfortunate that we met under hostile circumstances, but I am pleased to welcome you to the service of the First Citizen."

From behind Pritchard, the Mule immediately reached into the mind of Captain Poltz and made adjustments. While the language of the man from another galaxy might differ, the "switches" within his mind were all too familiar, and he found adjusting the man to be effortless. He similarly adjusted the minds of the two white-plated troopers flanking him. Out of mild curiosity, he mentally reached toward the shiny robot, but he detected nothing. All of that took less than a second.

The demeanor of Captain Poltz changed instantly and dramatically. He now smiled generously and rattled off something in his own language. The robot looked momentarily confused while turning its head to Pritchard and then back to Poltz, but the captain reiterated what he had said and glared at the robot, which in turn swiveled its head and glowing photoreceptors toward Pritchard.

"Captain Poltz … is _honored_ to be of service to the First Citizen and his galactic forces. He looks forward to expanding his … _our_ reach into a new galaxy."

Without missing a beat, Pritchard smiled. He knew what had just happened, as he had seen such scenes played out countless times before. This officer was now a sworn servant to the Mule and would die for him without hesitation if necessary. His loyalty to the Mule's galactic empire was now unquestionable.

…

_He has commandeered the two alien ships._

The First Speaker of the Second Foundation studied the instruments before him within the small freighter. Already, he had been forced to make very light adjustments to pilots of military picket ships who had been on the verge of demanding information from the captain of the freighter on which the Second Foundation agents were now ensconced.

First Speaker Pedro Chavez lifted his gaze to lock eyes with the only other agent aboard. With several facial tics and expressions and eye movements, he held a conversation with Jon Sulvin containing information that would have taken an average person hours to complete. That the two men could also project thoughts and ideas to each other greatly limited the amount of spoken words that needed to be exchanged.

_He will take those two alien ships through_, intoned Sulvin.

_Indeed. We must have eyes there._

_It may be very dangerous to attempt. We must not again underestimate the Mule!_

Chavez nodded. He knew that either of them attempting to board one of the mile-long ships that would cross into the other galaxy would likely meet in failure. Still, there was no rush to go over with those particular ships. Soon, smaller and even non-military vessels would likely cross over. That was their best bet. They were, after all, in what appeared to be a freighter.

The First Speaker closed his eyes, and he reached out with his mind to brush over the many minds concentrated in this area of space. Within an hour, he had pinpointed several minds that might be of use to his mission. One or more of them would serve as his eyes.


End file.
